Pub Date : 2015-02-04DOI: 10.5040/9781472577283.01073
Andre Dubus, D. Bruns
The retreating Pine Island Glacier (PIG), West Antarctica, presently contributes ~5 – 10% of global sea-level rise. PIG ’ s retreat rate has increased in recent decades with associated thinning migrating upstream into tributaries feeding the main glacier trunk. To project future change requires modelling that includes robust parameterisation of basal traction, the resistance to ice fl ow at the bed. However, most ice-sheet models estimate basal traction from satellite-derived surface velocity, without a priori knowledge of the key processes from which it is derived, namely friction at the ice-bed interface and form drag, and the resistance to ice fl ow that arises as ice deforms to negotiate bed topography. Here, we present high-resolution maps, acquired using ice-penetrating radar, of the bed topography across parts of PIG. Contrary to lower-resolution data currently used for ice-sheet models, these data show a contrasting topography across the ice-bed interface. We show that these diverse subglacial landscapes have an impact on ice fl ow, and present a challenge for modelling ice-sheet evolution and projecting global sea-level rise from ice-sheet loss.
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Pub Date : 2015-02-04DOI: 10.1163/1875-3922_q3_eqsim_00038
Charles Baxter
middle-aged ruin: When she looks at you, her vision goes right through your skin and internal organs and comes out on the other side. She mutters to herself, and she gives off a smell of rancid cooking oil. She’s unpresentable. If she tried to go shopping alone at the supermarket, the security people would escort her right back out, that’s how alarming she is. The simple explanation for her having taken up residence here is that she appeared at the downtown Minneapolis bus depot last week, having come from Tulsa, where she lived in destitution. She barely had money for bus fare. My son, Wesley, her ex-husband, had to take her in. We all did. However, the more honest explanation for her arrival is that Jesus sent her to me. Two weeks ago I was in the shower and felt a lump in my breast. I actually cried out in a M y former daughter-in-law is sitting in the next room eating cookies off a plate. Poor thing, she’s a freeloader and can’t manage her own life anywhere in the world. Therefore she’s here. She’s hiding out in this house, for now, believing that she’s a victim. Her name’s Corinne, and she could have been given any sort of name by her parents, but Corinne happens to be the name she got. It’s from the Greek, kore. It means “maiden.” When I was a girl, no one ever called me that—a maiden. The word is obsolete. Everyone else under this roof—my son and his second wife (my current daughter-in-law, Astrid) and my two grandchildren—probably wonders what Corinne is doing here. I suppose they’d like her to evaporate into what people call “thin” air. Corinne’s bipolar and a Avarice
{"title":"Avarice","authors":"Charles Baxter","doi":"10.1163/1875-3922_q3_eqsim_00038","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1163/1875-3922_q3_eqsim_00038","url":null,"abstract":"middle-aged ruin: When she looks at you, her vision goes right through your skin and internal organs and comes out on the other side. She mutters to herself, and she gives off a smell of rancid cooking oil. She’s unpresentable. If she tried to go shopping alone at the supermarket, the security people would escort her right back out, that’s how alarming she is. The simple explanation for her having taken up residence here is that she appeared at the downtown Minneapolis bus depot last week, having come from Tulsa, where she lived in destitution. She barely had money for bus fare. My son, Wesley, her ex-husband, had to take her in. We all did. However, the more honest explanation for her arrival is that Jesus sent her to me. Two weeks ago I was in the shower and felt a lump in my breast. I actually cried out in a M y former daughter-in-law is sitting in the next room eating cookies off a plate. Poor thing, she’s a freeloader and can’t manage her own life anywhere in the world. Therefore she’s here. She’s hiding out in this house, for now, believing that she’s a victim. Her name’s Corinne, and she could have been given any sort of name by her parents, but Corinne happens to be the name she got. It’s from the Greek, kore. It means “maiden.” When I was a girl, no one ever called me that—a maiden. The word is obsolete. Everyone else under this roof—my son and his second wife (my current daughter-in-law, Astrid) and my two grandchildren—probably wonders what Corinne is doing here. I suppose they’d like her to evaporate into what people call “thin” air. Corinne’s bipolar and a Avarice","PeriodicalId":42372,"journal":{"name":"VIRGINIA QUARTERLY REVIEW","volume":"41 1","pages":"138 - 145"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2015-02-04","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"73413478","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2014-10-31DOI: 10.1142/9789811212543_0011
Anna Beeke
Beeke began this project with considerable reluctance. “I’ve never wanted to go on a cruise,” she admits. In fact, “the whole idea of going with three or four thousand people to see the same thing just seemed strange to me.” Rather, Beeke is a solitary traveler. But the sea seemed like a good antidote to a year photographing in the forests of the Pacific Northwest and Eastern Seaboard. And she could see the creative potential in documenting cruise culture’s strange juxtaposition of relaxation and overstimulation. As long as she could find some unpopulated spot on a deck to indulge a sense of being alone at sea, she could then dive back inside for balloon animals and the midnight buffet. In the end, she says, “I was surprised that I kind of enjoyed it.”
{"title":"“At Sea”","authors":"Anna Beeke","doi":"10.1142/9789811212543_0011","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1142/9789811212543_0011","url":null,"abstract":"Beeke began this project with considerable reluctance. “I’ve never wanted to go on a cruise,” she admits. In fact, “the whole idea of going with three or four thousand people to see the same thing just seemed strange to me.” Rather, Beeke is a solitary traveler. But the sea seemed like a good antidote to a year photographing in the forests of the Pacific Northwest and Eastern Seaboard. And she could see the creative potential in documenting cruise culture’s strange juxtaposition of relaxation and overstimulation. As long as she could find some unpopulated spot on a deck to indulge a sense of being alone at sea, she could then dive back inside for balloon animals and the midnight buffet. In the end, she says, “I was surprised that I kind of enjoyed it.”","PeriodicalId":42372,"journal":{"name":"VIRGINIA QUARTERLY REVIEW","volume":"116 1","pages":"100 - 109"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2014-10-31","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"79373904","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2014-07-02DOI: 10.1002/9783527809080.cataz14129
Brian Sneeden
For the North, the war produced a still greater hero in Abraham Lincoln – a man eager, above all else, to weld the Union together again, not by force and repression but by warmth and generosity. In 1864 he had been elected for a second term as president, defeating his Democratic opponent, George McClellan, the general he had dismissed after Antietam. Lincoln's second inaugural [2] address closed with these words:
{"title":"Reconstruction","authors":"Brian Sneeden","doi":"10.1002/9783527809080.cataz14129","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1002/9783527809080.cataz14129","url":null,"abstract":"For the North, the war produced a still greater hero in Abraham Lincoln – a man eager, above all else, to weld the Union together again, not by force and repression but by warmth and generosity. In 1864 he had been elected for a second term as president, defeating his Democratic opponent, George McClellan, the general he had dismissed after Antietam. Lincoln's second inaugural [2] address closed with these words:","PeriodicalId":42372,"journal":{"name":"VIRGINIA QUARTERLY REVIEW","volume":"3 1","pages":"87 - 87"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2014-07-02","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"87866230","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
On the morning of Thursday, April 24, 2013, traffic on the Dhaka-Aricha Highway was lighter than usual. On most days, the industrial artery that connects the Bangladeshi capital of Dhaka to suburbs in the northwest is choked with Suzuki hatchbacks, scooters, and banged-up buses that honk and belch incessantly as they carry commuters to construction sites and factories in towns like Dhamrai, Gakulnagor, and Savar, a subdistrict of the capital dominated by garment makers. But on that morning, they were in the third day of another nationwide hartal, or strike, called by opponents of the ruling Awami League party, the latest in a never-ending cycle of political brinkmanship that had paralyzed the country on and off for years. Like power outages and flash floods, strikes are a fact of life in Bangladesh. In Savar and other manufacturing hubs, the protocol among working-class people generally is to heed them or be prepared for trouble. Rana Plaza, a hulking commercial complex that fronts the highway, was an exception that day. The building's owner, Sohel Rana, insisted that employees report for work as usual, in defiance of the opposition, with plans to mobilize them for a possible street protest. This was not an empty gesture: On any given day, the plaza's eight stories held as many as five thousand people, most of whom were employed by garment-making companies linked to well-known Western brands. At his pastry shop across the street from the plaza, Saiful Islam was reading about the strike in the morning paper when he heard a shriek of breaking glass cut the air. He looked up to see shards of blue glass from the building that adjoined the plaza raining onto the far sidewalk, cutting several people waiting at the bus stand below. For a moment Islam assumed it was sabotage, a brick through a window, until the ground started to quake. Rana Plaza seemed to be imploding. As the quake intensified, more panels blasted out onto the street, and several workers jumped to their deaths. Then the upper floors fell in quick succession, one after another, causing the bottom half of the building to pancake under their weight. In a matter of seconds, the eight-story building was reduced to a heap of slabs and iron. As the cloud of concrete dust began to settle on the rubble, Islam and others bolted across the street to look for survivors. Police and the fire brigade were called to the scene, but word of the collapse spread even faster through nearby bastis--dense neighborhoods of concrete and tin barracks where poor garment-making families live. By the time fire-brigade officers showed up ten minutes later, an agitated crowd of hundreds had already gathered and was quickly swelling into a crowd of thousands, hindering authorities' ability to access the site. "It was a human sea," says Islam. Language: en
{"title":"The Ghosts of Rana Plaza: In Bangladesh, one year after the worst accident in the history of the garment industry, recovery remains a fragile process, justice seems elusive, and reform has a long way to go.","authors":"Jason Motlagh, Atish Saha","doi":"10.1353/VQR.2014.0029","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/VQR.2014.0029","url":null,"abstract":"On the morning of Thursday, April 24, 2013, traffic on the Dhaka-Aricha Highway was lighter than usual. On most days, the industrial artery that connects the Bangladeshi capital of Dhaka to suburbs in the northwest is choked with Suzuki hatchbacks, scooters, and banged-up buses that honk and belch incessantly as they carry commuters to construction sites and factories in towns like Dhamrai, Gakulnagor, and Savar, a subdistrict of the capital dominated by garment makers. But on that morning, they were in the third day of another nationwide hartal, or strike, called by opponents of the ruling Awami League party, the latest in a never-ending cycle of political brinkmanship that had paralyzed the country on and off for years. Like power outages and flash floods, strikes are a fact of life in Bangladesh. In Savar and other manufacturing hubs, the protocol among working-class people generally is to heed them or be prepared for trouble. Rana Plaza, a hulking commercial complex that fronts the highway, was an exception that day. The building's owner, Sohel Rana, insisted that employees report for work as usual, in defiance of the opposition, with plans to mobilize them for a possible street protest. This was not an empty gesture: On any given day, the plaza's eight stories held as many as five thousand people, most of whom were employed by garment-making companies linked to well-known Western brands. At his pastry shop across the street from the plaza, Saiful Islam was reading about the strike in the morning paper when he heard a shriek of breaking glass cut the air. He looked up to see shards of blue glass from the building that adjoined the plaza raining onto the far sidewalk, cutting several people waiting at the bus stand below. For a moment Islam assumed it was sabotage, a brick through a window, until the ground started to quake. Rana Plaza seemed to be imploding. As the quake intensified, more panels blasted out onto the street, and several workers jumped to their deaths. Then the upper floors fell in quick succession, one after another, causing the bottom half of the building to pancake under their weight. In a matter of seconds, the eight-story building was reduced to a heap of slabs and iron. As the cloud of concrete dust began to settle on the rubble, Islam and others bolted across the street to look for survivors. Police and the fire brigade were called to the scene, but word of the collapse spread even faster through nearby bastis--dense neighborhoods of concrete and tin barracks where poor garment-making families live. By the time fire-brigade officers showed up ten minutes later, an agitated crowd of hundreds had already gathered and was quickly swelling into a crowd of thousands, hindering authorities' ability to access the site. \"It was a human sea,\" says Islam. Language: en","PeriodicalId":42372,"journal":{"name":"VIRGINIA QUARTERLY REVIEW","volume":"54 1","pages":"44 - 89"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2014-05-02","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"86218887","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
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